


Loved for what you're not

by Manyllines



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Self-Esteem Issues, Slightly vent fic, guess i lied to myself, i said i was never gonna write hurt with no comfort, it's not that bad really, sixty has some sad thoughts about himself, yeah sixty has that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26144857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manyllines/pseuds/Manyllines
Summary: Maybe he wouldn't be alone if he smiled like him.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Loved for what you're not

**Author's Note:**

> The title and some parts of the fic are inspired by the song "I Am not A robot" by Marina and the diamons and "This is Home" by Cavetown.
> 
> Don't know if i should warn or not, but sixty uses some degrading words and "indirectly" uses it/its pronouns for himself.

Sixty stares at the mirror. What stares back at him isn’t pretty.

It has what once was a hole, a bullet hole, now a scar, badly soldered, and ugly, it brings attention everywhere he goes. He hates it.

What stares back also looks disheveled, its strands of hair are all over the place sticking to where they shouldn’t, glued with dried blood to his temples.

Its- The eyes, normally vivid with emotion, fake or not, are empty. Nothing but a broken being behind them. They’re brown, _his_ , are also brown, he hates them. Wishes they were better, like _his_ , more likeable and friendly but still sharp. Sadly, its ones aren’t anything close to his, its own are sad, miserable, a waste of space on the face. They’re also watery right now, bruised and fatigued. 

Androids don’t get tired.

The gaze goes lower and reaches the mouth of what looks back at him. Its signature. Always full of malice and sass. A remark always right at the tip of its tongue. 

The mouth sits in a frown, edges upside down. The one that looks, at what looks back never lets nobody see the mirrored version of its signature. Those around would worry and ask. It cannot give an answer to something it does not know.

It cannot have the edges down, because she doesn’t agree with it. She couldn’t love imperfect.

He should have obeyed her. That was his only objective and he failed.

Machines don’t fail. 

How miserable, just like its eyes.

The reflection brings hands up and closer, reaching for the face, closer to the frown.

People love when the edges are up, not down, even if it’s fake. They don’t care, because sixty is not known for a sad limp frown, but a pouty one, full of energy. Yes, people like that sixty.

They love that sixty.

She loved that sixty.

Sixty...loves ( _??_ ) that sixty.

The tips of the fingers of both hands touch the edges and bring them up. A smile.

The reflection looks itself in the eyes. The water flows out of them silently, not hitching, not hiccuping, not like the soothing sound of the rain. But a silent fountain, hidden from everyone's view.

The mouth that it holds wobbles in its weak grip, threatening to go down, it pulls up harder, using the rest of its fingers to keep it still and together.

The expression of what stares back at him smiles. Yes people love the smile. 

_He’s_ always smiling and people love _him_ , so if he does the same people will also love him.

Right?

The water, salty water, burns his eyes. The urge to rub them is incessant, but for that he-it would have to let go of the smile. If the smile goes away then it will never come back.

That’s what happened last time, he stopped smiling and she left. _He_ also left. Everyone left.

Sixty chokes on a sob.

It stares, burns, judges, strips him naked and points at everything that is wrong.

It’s always _his_ face that stares back, it’s its brain that judges, but it’s _his_ face that voices those judgments.

That’s why the hair is longer, the skin around the eyes a little more darker. Running from _him_ , himself, itself-

He can’t look at it anymore.

He feels sick and light headed, he’s trembling all over, hands distorting behind the water fountain.

He grips the sink and lowers himself to the ground, curling into a tiny, minuscule ball of limbs.

What stares back at him can’t stare if he doesn’t see it.

He chokes and sobs.

Does he really prefer being miserable and hated?

Why would he want to be loved for something that he is not.

**Author's Note:**

> hmmmm sixty sad hours everyone.  
> I really do love torturing my little s'more chid ;-;  
> Vent fics are always interesting.  
> Who's that 'he' that he refers to so much?~
> 
> Even though this one is sad i still hope you liked reading it.


End file.
